It Seems Crazy, But You Must Believe (There's Nothing Calculated)
by SilverBird13
Summary: Stark makes some protests about his girls, his King, and likely his bloody honor, but Petyr's too busy half-dragging him out of the Hall and back to one of the corridors to care. Like a child playing a prank, he looks in both directions before slamming a rather limp Ned to the nearest wall and kissing him as though he were drowning. *Contains Slash*


[A/N: This pairing fascinates me. It's messed-up in a wonderful way and needs more love/fanart (Gods, Petyr Baelish, I love writing you). Also, the title is from the score of "Evita", which I don't own. Until next time!]

The sun has just cleared the line of the sea when Petyr Baelish sits down to his morning meal and decides to never again rise before midday (_Fucking Stark and his fucking diligence_).

He smirks with only his bread and dates as witnesses. _Fucking Stark indeed_.

It is a little-known fact that Lord Baelish, Master of Coin, rarely gets drunk. He hates excess, unless, as in the case of that swine they call King, he can use it to his advantage, learning little (_or large_) truths.

Such as he did last night, much to his pleasure.

_It's almost deafeningly loud in the Great Hall, and all Petyr wants to do at this point in his evening is retire to his rooms. Instead, he contents himself with watching ripe young Sansa Stark dance with her prince. He licks his lips. A fine little piece indeed._

_As the song ends and the girl wiggles back to her seat, Petyr averts his gaze to contemplate Ned Stark. Contemplating men, Petyr knows, is a sign he needs to bed down before the drink gets the best of him, but the air is hot and delicious and suddenly all Petyr wants is the dour Lord Stark in his bed (the small council meetings, the tourney, the courtly chatter has been only foreplay, and all foreplay must end)._

_With the determination only a man in his cups can have, Petyr makes his way through the crowd to greet his new bedwarmer._

_"My dear Lord Stark," he says, voice smooth and rich as the Arbor Red in his glass as he claps Ned's shoulder in greeting (Oh, so broad, too..)._

_"Good evening, Lord Baelish. A fine night, is it not?" Stark looks around, poorly hiding his ennui._

_"Oh yes, the perfect evening for the Hand's first banquet in King's Landing. Now tell me, my Lord, do you find it more pleasurable than the ones in the North?" Petyr nearly purrs the last sentence (if he doesn't get it by now, the man's denser than the damned Wall)._

_"Yes, Lord Baelish, I find it quite well. A bit more stifling, perhaps, than the ones Winterfell hosts, but my daughters seem to be enjoying themselves, and thus I do as well," With this, Stark turns to call to his children. _

_(Dear Gods, the man's simple with honor!) "My, then", Petyr tuts like a septa to distract him, "Come with me, and I'll refresh you a little. We wouldn't want our Lord Hand to faint away, now would we?"_

_Stark makes some protests about his girls, his King, and likely his bloody honor, but Petyr's too busy half-dragging him out of the Hall and back to one of the corridors to care. Like a child playing a prank, he looks in both directions before slamming a rather limp Ned to the nearest wall and kissing him as though he were drowning. _

_Petyr has just managed to wrap his arms around those delicious shoulders and start to trail his lips along Stark's jaw when Ned lets out a groan. Petyr presses harder against him and tilts his head up to capture those rough lips again. Before he can reach his target, however, he finds himself pinned against the wall instead, with Stark's rather irate face only centimeters from his. _

_"I-won't-do-this-you-bloody-bastard," Stark manages to grit out through teeth clenched enough to rival Stannis Baratheon. Petyr ignores him and instead smirks as he rubs his belly against Ned's groin. He's rewarded with a surpressed moan and what will likely be finger-shaped bruises on his shoulders tomorrow._

_"You've done it before," Petyr helpfully points out, still grinding. "Though I fear I may be less, how do you say, fertile than Snow's mother was."_

_His honesty gets him a knee between the legs. _

_Stark, however, being Stark, refuses to let Petyr writhe on the floor and eventually collect his dignity (perhaps that floppy-haired Lannister is still at the banquet...). Instead, he receives an unfortunately chaste escort back to his chambers. Petyr quickly decides that being gagged is far less appealing when there is no warm hand on his cock to distract him, but that he makes it to his bed in the end is an accomplishment. _

_Stark, being Stark, also reminds Petyr that there is still a small council meeting tomorrow, and not to be late, as they're reviewing Lord Hursty's report of the markets in each of the Seven Kingdoms, which is apparently important business._

Petyr strokes his chin and calls for a pitcher of wine.


End file.
